


A Game of Faces

by ANocturnalCow212



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Jonsa Reunion 2.0, Season 8 Headcanon, told from Arya's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 01:26:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17694962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANocturnalCow212/pseuds/ANocturnalCow212
Summary: Suspicious of Jon's intentions when he returns to Winterfell with Daenerys Targeryen, Arya attempts to extract the truth from him by playing the Braavosi game of faces. The result is shocking.





	A Game of Faces

Arya found Sansa up on the battlements, staring out at the snow covered lands leading to the King’s Road as she was wont to do of late. Her ever proper sister had been getting increasingly agitated since receiving word of Jon’s return from his southern excursion. The battlements seemed to offer her a reprieve from whatever it was that bothered her.

Arya recognized the capable leader Sansa had become. It must have been difficult, infuriating even, to hand over the reins to their bastard brother after doing so much.

If Sansa heard Arya’s approaching footsteps, she did nothing to acknowledge her presence.

“The bannermen will be expecting you at the Great Hall in a moment,” Arya said, her stealthy voice a clanging intrusion in her sister’s open cocoon.

“I know.” Sansa let out a stuttered sigh, her gaze still trained on the snow swathed horizon. A deep crease dented the skin between her brows. She was always pensive these days. A far cry from the whimsical girl who’d rejoiced at the prospect of marrying Joffrey Baratheon. But what was she pensive about? What clever hand was she going to play to undermine Jon?

Sansa clutched the hood of her cloak shut with a pale, ungloved hand. “No doubt they’ll have a hundred and one questions about Jon’s dealings with Cersei and the Dragon Queen.” She shook her head. “There’ll be no convincing them that I’m just as ignorant about the matter as they are.”

Hands entwined behind her back, Arya raised a brow. “But you have your intuition,” she prodded. “You saw how his mind worked when you planned to take Winterfell from the Boltons.”

The dent between Sansa’s brows disappeared. It was replaced by tenderness. Parted lips. A pronounced rise and fall of her chest.

“Do you think he’d force us to bend the knee?” Arya pressed.

“No. Well…” Shaking her head, Sansa wet her lips. “Jon is Jon. I trust him.”

“But his dealings in the south still worry you.”

“Well,” Sansa chuckled dryly, “we Starks haven’t exactly had the best fortunes in the south, have we?”

Arya did not miss the tremor in her voice. She intensified her scrutiny of her. If Sansa was truly concerned about Jon’s safety, shouldn’t she have been glad he was returning home? If she trusted him as she said she did, why was his impending return making her so restless. Arya was about to carry on with her inquiry when Sansa spoke again.

“They say the Dragon Queen—Daenerys…they say she is a great beauty.”

Arya balked. The foreign queen owned three dragons, and commanded an army of the Unsullied and a Dothraki horde. Yet, _this_ was what her sister fretted about? Perhaps she hadn’t matured as much after all.

“And you’re afraid of being overshadowed?” Arya asked, almost smug.

Sansa finally tore her gaze away from the horizon and looked Arya in the face. The hurt in her eyes would have made a younger Arya recoil with regret. _Not this again,_ the look said. _Not now._

“It’s Jon,” Sansa said, looking down, then back beyond the castle grounds. “I don’t know—I’d never considered what he’d do under the circumstances.”

Arya’s brows shot up. An incredulous chuckle escaped her. “You think _Jon’s_ had his head turned by her? Jon who willingly took the Black because he never wanted to take a wife?”

“I don’t know.” Releasing her hold on her cloak, Sansa set her bare hands on the snow-covered wall before them. “He’s not a brother of the Night’s Watch anymore, is he? And besides, he never spoke of such things with me. I just…it’s something Cersei said to me once…and the more I think about it, the more plausible it all seems.”

The mere mention of Cersei sent rage coiling in Arya. “And what was this lesson Cersei taught you?”

Sansa heard the accusation in her words. Cold steel masked her vulnerability. “She told me,” she said, her voice taut but unflinching, “that a woman’s greatest weapon is between her legs.”

“And you think Daenerys has succeeded in luring Jon in between her legs?”

The image made Sansa grimace. _Good._ “We can’t rule out the possibility,” she said, meekly, as though the words were ash in her mouth. She raised her hands from the wall. They were wet and covered in red patches. “My fingers have gone numb.” All emotion had drained from her face and voice. “Come, we’d best get inside. I’ll be no good against the Nigh King without my fingers.”

#

Arya watched the party from White Harbor arrive from the battlements flanking the East Gate. She was armored and armed like a northern soldier. It was to get a good look at the dragons. Like she’d wanted a good look at the Imp a lifetime ago. She definitely wasn’t hiding away to put off meeting the King of North, her beloved half-brother. It was Jon, after all. Jon who understood her better than anyone else.

But was he the same brother who’d warned her against telling Sansa about Needle? He _had_ left the north under her care. So much had changed.

It was well past noon when the lookouts spotted them riding towards the castle. Arya waited for great winged beasts to tear through the foggy skies over them. There was no sign of them nearby, though. Just the riders drawing closer in a tight formation.

A lone rider broke away and spurred his horse forth. The man bore an uncanny resemblance to her dead father, both in appearance and spirit. Arya’s breath caught in her throat. Surprised, her lips pulled up in a smile. Despite sporting a full, kingly beard, and taming his unruly curls in a bun, Jon still wore the same solemn face she’d known as a girl. Perhaps, not that much had really changed.

A wave of confused murmurs rippled through the courtyard below as he charged through the gate alone. Sansa, the only Stark waiting to welcome the new arrivals, paid it no heed. Shoulders squared and hands folded at her front, she looked as though she had forgotten to breathe altogether. Even from all the way up in the battlements, Arya thought she looked like she was close to bursting with anticipation.

Jon didn’t acknowledge the stable boy who took his reins. Nor did he wait for his subjects to convey their respects. With long, purposeful strides, he simply cut across the courtyard and enveloped himself in Sansa’s ready embrace. The sight—of the intimacy with which Sansa nuzzled into Jon’s shoulder, of him tightening his arms around her—shot a jolt of guilt through Arya. Sansa had had been telling the truth all along. She looked too relieved, too happy to see Jon to be plotting to usurp him. To harm him. She really did miss him. She really had come to care for him.

The realization threw Arya’s razor-sharp focus off balance. Everything _had_ changed. Then again, now that the world was going to go to shit soon enough, maybe it was for the best. Her lips twitched with the beginnings of a wry smile, but pulled up in a genuine one. After everything her family had endured, Winterfell was still home. The longer she looked at Sansa and Jon in each other’s embrace, the more she wanted to believe they could be as they were again. Safe. Under the protection of their mother and father.

 _Mother and father,_ Arya thought, her brows pulling together. Jon and Sansa were still clinging to each other, whispering into each other’s furs, oblivious to everyone in the courtyard gawking at them. _Mother and father used to do that when they thought none of us were looking._

Before she could give a name to the feeling that ensued, Sansa and Jon drew apart to greet a small, silver-haired woman decked in lavish white furs. The great Daenerys Targaryen. Jon remained firmly rooted at Sansa’s side as one of Daenerys’s cohorts recited the Dragon Queen’s many titles. Arya snorted. Numerous as they were, those titles meant nothing in Westeros, and the north would not be cowed.

Sansa’s response, though too quiet to hear up in the battlements, was perfectly courteous and left no doubt about her own title as Lady of Winterfell—a title which actually carried weight. Arya smirked smugly, admiring her sister’s deftness. She herself would never have succeeded under the circumstances. Not without bloodshed.

Daenerys’ back went rigid. Shuffling her feet, clenching her fists, she abruptly reached out and took Jon’s hand. The color drained from Sansa’s face as she slid closer to Jon, brushing her shoulders with his as though they were newlywed.

Arya felt as though she’d been doused in ice water. Sansa was right. Daenerys _had_ gotten to Jon. Her brother may have been the only one to truly understand her, but he was still a man like all the others. He would still give away their home for a pretty face and a sated cock.

All the joy, the confusion, the hope for reconciliation she felt mere moments ago burnt to ash. Her face hardened as her heart retreated behind stone walls.

 _Jon is Jon,_ Sansa had insisted earlier.

Jon was their father’s son. He was a man of the Night’s Watch. If anyone knew about duty, it should have been him. But love? Did he love his family enough to honor his duty to them? Or did his love for this…this Mother of Dragons trump that?

Arya’s heart splintered into a million pieces. She couldn’t trust Jon anymore. How could she when she had doubted Sansa so long for so much less?

#

Jon came hurrying to Bran’s chambers. Just as Arya had anticipated. With Sansa seeing to their guests, he was alone. Just as Arya had anticipated.

When he saw her, his face lit up with a smile that drove the solemnity from his gray eyes. Oh, Arya had hoped that wouldn’t happen. She had hoped he’d wear his deceit on his sleeve, make her condemnation of him easier. But that smile of his—the one she saw every time she wielded Needle—weakened her resolve to do what was necessary to protect her family. How she wished reality would not hurt so much. How she wished she could be that girl who’d been given Needle again.

“Arya!” Her name was a relieved laugh on his lips. He came up to her and drew her into an uninhibited hug.

Arya returned his affection despite the undercurrent of anger gnawing at her. He certainly seemed the same loving brother.

“Let me look at you,” Jon said. Holding her in place by the shoulders, he pulled away. “Still a wee bit too scrawny for a knight. Hasn’t Sansa been feeding you?”

Anger flared up inside her. How dare he speak of Sansa that way? “I’m almost as tall as you,” she said coldly.

“Aye, well,” he chuckled, “that’s not saying much, is it?” His eyes traveled down to Needle at her belt. “You still have it.”

“I do,” Arya replied. “I practice every day like you told me to. Lady Brienne will vouch for my skill with it, though—” she drew the blade, spun it by the hilt, and pointed it at him “—perhaps I can show you myself.”

Jon backed away, his eyes wide and hand reflexively hovering over the ivory hilt of his own sword. The elation in his eyes was guttered by a grim dawn. Gone was his earnest smile, replaced by one that was measured and forced. _Good,_ Arya thought, _He should be weary of me. Of what he’s done._

“Where’s Bran?” He asked, looking about the chamber.

“In the godswood.” Arya flipped Needle to face down and folded her hands behind her back. “He sees better when he’s closer to our gods.”

Brows furrowed in confusion, Jon nodded. “Well, then I…I better go and see him.”

“He won’t go anywhere. He can’t. We can talk a little.” She smiled, her eyes hard. “I have a great many stories to tell you about Braavos. As I’m sure you have many stories to tell me.”    

Jon leaned his weight towards the door. His sword hand clenched and unclenched as he tried to make sense of her. He wanted to say something, to excuse himself no doubt, but he struggled to find the words.

Arya needed him vulnerable. It made playing the game of the faceless men easier.

“Sansa tells me your sworn brothers murdered you. Is that true?”

He flinched. “Aye,” he said in a quiet, cracked voice.

“Is that a common practice?”

“No,” he said, nostrils flared. He turned away from the door, facing her completely. “They weren’t happy that I’d gone against orders and allowed the Wildling’s south of the Wall.”

“Did you do that a lot? Go against orders?”

“Only when it’s the right thing to do. I couldn’t let all those people die.”

_Truth._

“And then you broke your sacred vows to take back Winterfell and become King of the North.”

“I didn’t want to be king.” Hurt laced his words. _Truth._ “And I didn’t break my vows to the Night’s Watch. I was released from them when I was killed.” He bit his bottom lip to fight the pain coursing through him.

“But it must have been nice,” Arya pushed. “To have the northern lords hailing you as their king. The same lords who sneered at you for being Father’s bastard.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. He said nothing.

“And what about Sansa?”

“What about her?” Jon inhaled sharply, his eyes darkening.

_There it is._

“She always put you in your place when we were children, didn’t she? Made sure you knew you were a Snow, not a Stark. That you were only our half-brother _._ ”

“It’s not like that anymore.”

“Maybe. But she’s still Father’s trueborn heir. Unlike you, king though you may be.”

“I trust Sansa with the north as I would trust her with my life.”

_Truth._

“But trusting her won’t get you Winterfell, will it? It won’t fulfill the dreams you had as a boy. Of being Robb. Of taking Father’s place.”

“Of taking Father’s place?” Jon’s face screwed up in revulsion. “Of doing that to Sansa? Arya, she was battered and worn to the bone when she came to Castle Black. Everything I’ve done since then—I did it to protect her!”

 _Also the truth._ But the intensity of his emotions was too strong. He was a good liar, but Arya could break him. This was Sansa they were talking about. The sister whose courtly ways they made fun of as children. The one they hid all their mischievous plans from. No, she didn’t believe everything he said.

“You were acting by virtue of a good heart. Out of duty to your family. But things are different now. You’re a king with no castle to your name. Besides, Sansa was never a true sister to you. You don’t share that bond with her as you do with me or Bran.”

“The three of you are all the family I have,” he said in a pleading tone, too exhausted to continue the conversation. “I love Sansa as I love you and Bran.”

 _Lie._ A leaden weight crashed to the pit of Arya’s stomach.

“You…” She scrutinized his weary face. “You love her.”

“Aye, of course I do.”

_Truth._

“But not as you love me or Bran.”

“Arya, please.” His face softened. “We won’t get through what’s coming if we don’t trust each other.”

“You love her—” She swallowed the bile rising up her throat. The image of their embrace in the courtyard flashed before her eyes. Gods, even Daenerys had recognized what was going on. “You love her as you would a wife. A lover.”

Jon jerked his head back. Then gulped and licked his lips. His eyes darted here and there before closing. “No.”

_Lie._

“But you couldn’t have her, could you? She would never have you.” Spinning Needle to point its tip at his throat, Arya stalked towards him. Her words dripped with disgust. “So you ran to first willing woman who would. And now we’ve got no choice but to kneel to the woman whose father killed our grandfather and uncle.”

“It’s not like that,” Jon said with melancholic calm. He stayed perfectly still, palms open in the air, almost as if he welcomed the blade to his throat.

“She trusts you!” She lost her cool. Needle’s tip quivered a hairsbreadth away from his skin. “More than anyone else! Even with the vile feelings you have for her, you should have remembered the faith she put in you!”

“I did,” he said. Simply. Truthfully. “Every moment of every day, I remembered. Arya, you have to believe me. I would never knowingly put her or any of you in harm’s way.”

Arya couldn’t take anymore. Uttering a feral hiss, she retracted her blade and stormed out of the chamber.

“Arya,” Jon called after her. He caught her by the arm. “Arya, wait!”

Shoving him away, she kicked him off balance, onto his back. He stared at her, wide-eyed from shock, as she bent over him and pressed the flat side of Needle against his throat.

“If you step another foot out of line,” she said, her tone unaffected but menacing, “I won’t hesitate to strike.”

His body lax from surrender, Jon held her glower until she backed off and left him.

#

Bran was lucid when Arya plodded her way to the Godswood. As had become his manner, he did not seem to notice that something agitated her.

“Jon hasn’t come to see me,” he said, his tone flat. “I need to speak to him.”

“Did you know?” Arya nearly screamed. “Did you know about Jon this whole time?”

Bran trained his full attention on her. A rare quizzical look disturbed his stoic features. “For some time, yes.”

Disbelief sent Arya stumbling back. “And you said nothing?”

“I didn’t think it was of any concern to you. What Jon chooses to do with the truth is up to him.”

“What Jon—” Arya’s mouth hung open. “And you didn’t consider, even once, that Sansa might have a right to know that our brother’s in love with her? That he made every stupid mistake he’s made down south because he couldn’t get what he wants?”

Bran tilted his head pensively. “Jon does love Sansa, doesn’t he? And she may just love him back.”

Arya felt all warmth drain from her. What in Seven Hells was going on? They were Starks, not Lannister scum!

“But that may well be for the best,” Bran continued. “They _are_ to be married soon enough.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“I need to speak to Jon,” Bran said, unperturbed by her bewilderment. “Fetch Sansa as well. And Sam. The Night King will be here soon and Jon will need to know the whole truth if he’s to commandeer one of Daenerys’ dragons.”

Arya had no desire to speak to Jon so soon. But she needed answers. As she searched the castle for him and Sansa, one thing became very clear. Things had changed too much to return to as they were. She only hoped, no prayed, that what remained of her family could survive the upheavals that loomed ahead.


End file.
